


birdcage

by balladee



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Friendship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, POV Multiple, again there's a LOT of character death, it's the hunger games honey, jean/marco if you squint, mostly just the 104th kids (and the warriors), no like heavy angst, plotting this was painful, sad historia/ymir
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:00:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27581720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/balladee/pseuds/balladee
Summary: It's like a birdcage, the arena.Except, a trapped bird still has some memory of flight and still has wings, even if they're clipped. Eren has never known freedom, never known anything except the grueling labor of District 10 and the government's oppressive eyes on his back. And the threat of the Reaping, always, forever looming.It's real now, he thinks, with an odd sort of detachment. He's in the birdcage now, and he can feel the thousands of eyes watching his every move. He'll leave this arena either a murderer or a corpse.attack on titan, but they're all tributes in the hunger games. one victor.
Relationships: Krista Lenz | Historia Reiss/Ymir, Marco Bott & Jean Kirstein, Mikasa Ackerman & Eren Yeager
Kudos: 9





	birdcage

They spend the first hour in the arena hiking uphill through the woods. 

Marco moves with a brisk, jagged pace, twisting his head back the way they came every other second, scarcely looking at Jean. Jean understands, in a way - the adrenaline hasn’t worn down in the slightest - but it’s all he can do to keep his eyes on the ground in front of him and watch one foot fall in front of the other. Right, then left. The crunch of leaves underfoot. Right, then left. The hard snap of a twig in their path. The crack of that girl’s ribs, and the startled, gutted gasp from her mouth. The spray of blood across Marco’s cheekbone. The pool of red that spread out from where she fell.

Jean shakes his head once, hard enough to crack. Don’t think. Don’t think.

Keep moving. Right, then left. 

He risks another glance at Marco. His cheek is rubbed raw where the girl’s blood had struck him. His fingers keep flitting anxiously towards the collar of his shirt, but it's useless to try to rub away the bloodstains there. 

Don’t think. Keep moving.

They haven’t exchanged words since Marco screamed at him to run. 

_ He killed her for you _ . 

The thought comes into his mind unbidden, and he almost freezes from the shock. 

It’s true, though. She was going to kill him. However small she was, however young and stupidly innocent she looked with two blond braids, however out of place the knife looked in her hand - she was going to kill him. So Marco killed her instead. Picked up a spiked club from the ground and swung it so hard her ribs shattered and her lungs collapsed with a torn, bloody gasp. It’s a simple conclusion. Marco saved him. Marco  _ killed _ for him.

No one back home would so much as look at him. He’s known Marco, what, three days? Four? Less, really, because their interactions in training weren’t anything substantial. A mutual agreement of sorts. To be allies. At least at the start. No strings, no expectations, not even a promise made. And yet Marco had killed that girl to save him, when he could have run the other way. Marco put himself in danger. Marco lowered his own odds when he intervened, and lowered his odds by helping to keep another tribute - a competitor - alive. 

Why?

His footfalls take on the rhythm. Why? Why? Right, then left. Why?

He doesn’t realize he said it aloud until Marco slows to a stop and fixes him with a look. 

Marco’s freckles don’t match the seriousness of his eyes. Or the blood on the front of his shirt. Jean tries everything to keep from looking at the red.

“We’re a team,” Marco says simply.

“You killed that girl.”

“She was going to kill you.”

“You should have let me die.”

For the first time, Marco cracks a smile. It’s not a real smile, not at all, but the twitch in his eyebrow seems to lighten the air, somehow. “Maybe I should have,” he says. “But we’re a team, and we look out for each other.”

_ At least for now, _ Jean wants to say. At least while there’s still plenty of tributes left. But Marco turns away and goes on walking.

The sloping ground eventually gives way to outcroppings of rock, like twisted, jagged steps. From what he could see at the Cornucopia, this part of the arena is wooded and rugged. He isn’t sure how far it goes, but there’s at least one mountain, maybe two. And a river, a deep, wide river, which will be good for water. Jean’s lost sight of it since they forged into the woods, but if he’s still got his sense of direction about him, it must be somewhere to his left. To the right, he’s pretty sure the mountains drop off into cliffs and bluffs over a wide lake. Or maybe it’s an ocean. There’s no end to the water that Jean could see. They’ll have to curve around to the left and hopefully run into the river before nightfall. Water is the most important thing. He’s watched enough tributes die of dehydration on television to know that.

For now, they’re okay. Right, then left. Right, left. Just keep walking.

And then his thoughts start to drift to home. He knows exactly what his mother must look like now: clutching a handkerchief, knelt in front of the raggedy old television in their two-room house, eyes wide, glassy, not daring to cry or even breathe for fear of missing something. He wonders if anyone is with her. Maybe Hitch’s family went over to stay with her and share in the fear. He doubts his mother would go to theirs. He hopes she isn’t alone. 

All their arguments feel so stupid now. He used to cringe at the way she waved at him from the front door when he walked to school. Like it was embarrassing. He’d give anything to have that right now.

Somewhere in the distance, cannons start to fire. Jean counts, barely breathing. The entire arena must be holding its breath right now.

Each cannon is one kid dead. Jean tries to remind himself of that, but each BOOM brings relief. Eight. Eight tributes dead. Eight tributes closer to winning. Jean hates how that thought is almost comforting.

They were all in the hovercraft earlier. All together. The ride to the arena could have been five minutes or five hours for all Jean knew. He’d looked at each of their faces in turn, some drawn and quiet, some crying, some razor-sharp and focused. The air was clammy and hard to breathe. Eight of those faces are dead, now. The little blond girl is one of them. But there’s seven more, gone.

The battle at the Cornucopia is usually so brutal the Gamemakers can’t keep up with the deaths. The cannons firing now mean that the fighting must be over. Jean can’t keep himself from wondering who’s left. Usually, the inner district alliance - the kids who train their whole lives for the Games - take over the Cornucopia. They usually collect all the supplies and go from there. They’re usually ruthless and bloodthirsty. They also usually win. Jean decides to stop thinking about the alliance.

He and Marco just keep walking. Right, then left. The shadows grow longer and longer, but no tributes spring from them. A squirrel jumps from a bush and scares the shit out of him, but nothing else. Jean hopes it stays that way. The more they can avoid other tributes, the better. Of course, it’s not possible to hide forever - the Gamemakers will throw something at them as soon as it starts getting boring - but Jean prays for a quiet first night.

When the orange light from the sunset is cut completely by shadow, Marco suggests they camp for the night. They pick a spot and try to nestle into the undergrowth, but there’s not much cover anywhere. The rock outcroppings don’t lend themselves to much cover. Jean is comforted by the high ground, though. The cornucopia is in the downhill direction. They’ll be able to see anyone approaching.

Anyway, Jean is far more exhausted and sore than he should be. It’s the adrenaline, probably, and the fact that he hasn’t had anything to eat or drink since a glass of water in the launch room. If only he’d had a bigger appetite then. It was hard to be hungry.

Marco swings his pack off his shoulder and shoots Jean a hopeful grin. The dappled light catches in his eyelashes. “You wanna see what goodies I got?”

“I hope there’s food,” Jean says, scooting closer. “And water.” He knows from a lifetime of watching Hunger Games that the supply bags can be a complete lottery. Once, a tribute fought his way through the Bloodbath for a bag that contained nothing but a couple bars of soap.

The pack is sturdy and black. There’s a strap on the side that holds a flashlight for easy access. The zipper squeals loudly, which isn’t great in an arena where everyone is trying to hunt and kill you, but they’ll make do. Marco brushes the leaves off a spot of ground and lays the contents out one by one. A coiled rope. A square of thin tarp. Matches. A foil package of water purifying tablets. An empty water canteen.

“Not great,” Jean says at that.

Marco shrugs. “It looked like the river went up into the mountains. It’s gotta be nearby. That’s our goal for tomorrow.”

He pulls out a square box. Medical supplies. All it has is a small bottle of rubbing alcohol and gauze, but it’s better than nothing. 

For the moment, Jean is much more interested in the next items--three packages of crackers, jerky, and dried fruit, respectively. His stomach growls loudly, earning a chuckle from Marco.

“Should we, though?” Marco asks. “I mean, should we save it?”

“Let’s each have a little bit,” Jean says. He really isn’t sure if that’s the best strategy. He tries to think back to training but the exhaustion makes things fuzzy. His stomach is doing the thinking right now.

“I won’t argue,” Marco says. He starts to repack, carefully placing everything back in the bag. Jean rips open the dried fruit and divides it between them. The piles look very small.

With the sun settled below the horizon, the air is cooler. The food is a welcome distraction, and it’s gone in about thirty seconds.

Jean has to put his restless energy to something, so he starts clearing the ground for a fire, lining it with stones.

Marco isn’t eating, just turning the fruit over in his hands a bit possessively.

Jean pulls wood from a tree with a loud SNAP. “You gonna eat?”

Marco jumps. “Yeah. I mean, yeah.” He takes a tentative bite.

At least the undergrowth is all dry wood and vine. Good for kindling. It feels good to have a purpose besides walking, and breaking the branches into pieces is satisfying.

“My mom makes dried fruit every year,” Marco says. “To sell, of course. But she always had us kids try it to see if it was good enough to sell. She knew it was. It was just an excuse to give us some.”

“That’s sweet.”

“She makes candied rose petals. Have you ever had one?”

Funny. “No, course not.”

“They’re delicious.” Marco leans his head back as if he could taste it now. “One petal, every year at the harvest festival.”

So Marco’s family is in the merchant class. Jean’s worked in the grain mills in 9 his whole life. There was barely enough money for rations, let alone candied rose petals. He tries to push away the angry knot in his stomach. Marco can’t control their lots in life. That’s just how it is.

Jean drops his collection of wood next to Marco. “I don’t think anyone sells rose petals in 9.”

“Wish I could send you some,” Marco says, and then frowns as if he realizes how dumb that sounds.

Jean arranges the logs and kindling. One strike of a match and a flame hisses to life, sputtering toward his fingers and tossing shadows across the ground. He feeds it into the wood, tucking it carefully under the kindling until it lights. When Jean sits back on his haunches, Marco is staring at the trickling flames, impressed.

“It’s just a fire,” Jean says.

“You did that so fast,” Marco says.

Maybe it’s just the fire, but Jean’s cheeks grow hot. “I’ve done it a lot at home.” His house in 9 might as well be their little camp, for all the shelter it provides.

Marco’s eyes are warm when they meet Jean’s. “I knew being allies with you was a good idea.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Yeah, you do,” Marco says. “Come on. You’re pretty capable. I don’t know anything about this stuff. I’m following your lead.”

Jean pokes at the blooming fire with a stick, shifting a log over so sparks lift up. “It’s  _ just _ a fire. Anyone can do that.”

“I can’t,” Marco says frankly. “I mean, I went to the fire-building station in training so I have some idea, but I would have sat here fiddling with it for an hour before it lit.”

“Well, you can fight,” Jean says, and pokes meaninglessly at the logs again.

He isn’t looking, but he can tell Marco stiffins. “I just hit her hard enough.”

Jean looks up. Marco’s face is drawn, but the fire casts a pleasant, flickering glow across his freckles. “Hey, I’m thanking you,” Jean says. “You saved me.”

Marco meets his eyes for a long moment.

He shrugs. “Well, now we’re even.”

“What did I save  _ you _ from?”

“Freezing to death. Scoot over, I’m going to lay the tarp down under us.”

It  _ is _ a bit more comfortable with the tarp between them and the ground. Or maybe the air is just clearer between the two of them now. 

The anthem trumpets begin to play. Jean had nearly forgotten. The Gamemakers project the faces and district numbers of the dead in the sky every night so the remaining tributes know who’s left. 

The first face is the girl from 3, and then the boy from 4. That’s odd. Jean had figured that boy would be a problem from day one - he looked like a perfect soldier, muscular and stocky with straight combed hair. The bloodbath can be anyone’s game, though. People die so easy. Jean hears the crack of the girl’s ribs again in his mind and winces.

The girl from 5. The girl from 6 - there she is, tiny and blond and so scared in her photograph.

The next face is Hitch’s, and Jean’s stomach drops to his shoes. He’s aware of Marco looking at him, his hand an inch from Jean’s knee like he can’t quite decide to put it down or not, but all Jean can do is stare at the sky while his throat goes numb.

Her face is gone too quickly, replaced by another and another and another after that, and then Jean is staring at the Capital seal. The anthem ends with a flourish, and the sky goes dark.

The crickets resume singing.

“That was your district partner?” It’s not really a question.

“Yeah,” Jean says, and his voice is surprisingly steady. “Yeah, she was.”

“Oh,” Marco says, because there’s nothing better to say.

“It’s okay,” Jean says. It feels like someone else is talking. “I didn’t know her very well.”

Marco hums. “I don’t know Krista very well, either. She’s still alive, I guess. I don’t know if I’m happy or scared about that.”

He’s only talking to try to make him feel better. It’s a bit ridiculous. There is no  _ feeling better _ . It’s the Hunger Games. If Krista isn’t dead now, Marco should hope she is soon. 

“I’ll take first watch,” Jean offers. 

Marco’s scrunches his nose. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” Jean says. “I’ll wake you in a bit.”

Marco doesn’t argue and curls up under his uniform jacket. The silver number 8 printed on the back is reflective in the firelight. Another little Gamemaker present, Jean supposes. They’ll have to cover it with dirt tomorrow.

Maybe Hitch died like the girl from 6, with a crack of bone and a guttural gasp and a face twisted in fear. Maybe it was slower. Maybe she bled out on the grass for hours.

Don’t think, Jean tells himself. Don’t think. There’s no point in wondering. If he wins, he’ll get to watch her death in high definition from the victor’s throne. If he loses, he’ll be dead. Either way, there’s no room for wondering.

The crackling fire is oddly comforting, mixing in the air with the chirp of crickets and cicadas. Between the fire and the warm jacket, Jean could almost call it cozy. Just the sounds of wood popping and insects and the boy breathing beside him. The rise and fall of Marco’s chest help him find the rhythm of his own. The forest is too thick to see the stars or moon, but the firelight dances off the undersides of leaves above. 

Marco said he was  _ capable _ . Jean isn’t sure how true that is, but it’s a nice thought. That’s a word he would have used for his father when he was alive.

The next thing he knows is breaking branches and footsteps and Marco lurching to his feet. It takes less than a second for Jean to understand. The fire--nothing more than smoking coals. The dark is absolute, but not enough to miss Marco’s eyes, wide and unblinking, his entire body coiled and ready to spring. The group of tributes crashing up the slope call out to each other, readying weapons.

Jean understands what it is to be prey now.

Marco swings the pack at Jean’s chest. “We split up. Meet later. Just run.”

Jean’s mouth is dry. “The fire--the smoke. They must have seen it.”

“Yeah, they’ve seen us for sure. Run.”

“Marco--”

Marco yanks Jean to his feet and shoves him. Hard. “Run!”

Somehow, Jean manages to wrap numb fingers around the straps of the pack and turn and stumble away, blindly fumbling into trees. Even in his cloudy mind, he realizes he won’t make it far. He finds the flashlight where it’s strapped to the pack and rips it off. He moves quicker with the light even though he knows it makes him a target. 

Behind him, voices shout out to one another. They must have reached the remains of the fire. He swings the light behind him, just in time to catch a broad-shouldered boy rip Marco’s stomach open with a sword. 

Marco drops like nothing. The killer turns to the source of the light, but Jean’s already turned it away, moving, running, running, running in the other direction. Right, then left. Right, left. Each step rattles up his skeleton and his thoughts circle in his head, replaying the sword--clean on the way in, bloody when Marco fell away--the group of tributes circling, pulling back from the light, the killer beginning to turn, the silver number on his back blinking in the light. Right, left. Right, left. Footsteps. 2. Marco falling.  _ Run! _

_ You’re pretty capable. _ What a fucking joke. A capable person wouldn’t light a fire at night, when he should know the career tributes will be combing the arena for victims. A capable person wouldn’t fall asleep on watch. A capable person wouldn’t leave their ally behind to die.

He doesn’t care if the Careers are pursuing him or not. He can’t hear them, anyway, can’t hear anything except his footsteps and the rushing blood in his head. Branches whip at his face and catch on his clothes, but he rips them away easily. Nothing matters except the steady yellow beam ahead of him, showing him where to step. Right, left.

His stomach burns, like he’s been skewered on a red hot stake that drives him forward.  _ I knew being allies with you was a good idea. _

A cannon sounds, and Jean balls his fist in his mouth to keep from crying out. 

One thing he knows for sure. 

He’s going to kill the boy from 2.

**Author's Note:**

> aaand we’re off. y’all have no idea how long i’ve been thinking about writing this fic. it’s finally happening. anyway, if it’s not obvious, this is literally just the hunger games so there will be death and violence and cursing because, it’s the hunger games, let the tributes say fuck. (side note: do you think the capital would bleep out cuss words? i think yes. that’s very ironic of them. yes, your five year old daughter IS required to watch this horrific gory state-sponsored television show, but don’t worry, we WILL censor the language.) 
> 
> kudos and comments are forever appreciated. i’ll be trying to get on some sort of weekly update schedule but tbh covid university™ is kicking my ass.


End file.
